A Warrior
by theatrythms
Summary: What really makes a warrior?


A Warrior

* * *

ii.

You're four days sixteen when the war calls for. Your siblings seem unafraid, but you can't stop your hands from shaking.

Why won't they stop shaking?

You're sixteen, your siblings aren't scared, and you can't hide that the idea of going to war is a little exciting. You've spent the past eight years learning and writing the perfect songs soaked in pain to fight. This should be easy for you, natural for you, no problem for you.

But it is.

You're four days sixteen when the battle calls for you, because you're a warrior, who's spent her entire life learning to write and play the songs to take someone's life. You were trained to hunt for phantoma on the battlefield, creating ghosts and destroying humanity with a few notes played on a small wooden flute. It's your duty, your job, your life. You're fingers flutter up and down your instrument your weapon quicker than any Militesi soldier can load a gun.

You're four days sixteen when war calls for you.

Your hands stop shaking, because you're a fucking warrior.

iv.

You've been here before. Everything is familiar, from the smell and scenery, to the sounds and sights. You've been here before, but not just in your dreams and nightmares, nor any old training simulation created by mother. This isn't your first time fighting for the crystal while the rest of your country is helpless. You've been here countless times.

You're just reliving your first operation, and all the fear, the excitement, the anxiety, is gone.

It's a boring mission, but seeing how your siblings flourish on the field brings back all those long gone feelings buried under years of repetition. You marvel at how they look programmed as always, dragging old memories out of the furthest part of you. Seeing how they know what they're doing without actually _knowing_ is slightly jarring to see. They're calm and composed but there's ships crashing in them, riling all those emotions you once felt, that have no washed away like rain would to blood on a battlefield.

You're here again, gun in hand, purple glow bathing the left side of your face. The flag flies above you in the same rhythm as always. But something feels different. You hope something is different. You're a warrior that's been here before, time after time, cycle after cycle. You're trapped in the same world of the same sounds, scenery, smells and sights.

You've been here before, because you're a fucking warrior.

v.

Your fingers itch before you deploy. There's gun shots ringing around your head, hitting against your ears in a mantra making you crave the next sound. Its building the excitement in you, riling you for the work ahead of you on the battlefield. You've always been excited for your first mission, eagerly waiting for _your turn_ and when you can finally fight.

It's really the only thing your good at. Your siblings have an arsenal of individual talents that make them special and unique, yet all you have is your strength and your skill. Academics never were quite your strong point. Not the way fighting is. You fight with a mace thrice your weight and half your height. Its makes you feel strong, it makes you feel powerful.

Your fingers itch against the handle of your mace. You're ready for the battle, you crave the chaos awaiting you, and you long for the discord you can create.

Your fingers itch for the battle, because you're a fucking warrior.

vi.

You're afraid, you tell yourself, once the flames quell and the teams are arranged. Operation Apostle was strictly a last resort. A use-in-case-of-emergency. Mother didn't have any sort of simulation for it. You never thought you'd be a part of it.

Then why is it working so well?

You slice across the battle without remorse, yet without drive. It feels like, dare you say it, a chore to be there amongst your siblings, who yesterday were children.

Your rhythm is perfect, precise, no hesitation in your actions. You can't hesitate, you're a warrior.

Flames glint off your scythe, bring light to all corners to the hidden grief of war. It can't escape, the light is bright and it reflects against the ugly battleground, revealing the darkest grief. Rubble and ruin are all part of the job. You knew it the minute you picked up your weapon. It's your job, and you're good at it.

You'll do your duty to your home, because you're a fucking warrior.

vii.

Your youngest sister is crying, and your littlest brother looks like he's about to get sick. You personally, are fine, but with each passing minute, you get more anxious for them. What if they fail?

You're not nervous. The assurance of mother's magic defending you seems to barrier you from any worries and troubles about the mission. You've gone through every worst-case scenario. You're ready to go out there and defend Rubrum till the end. You're skilled enough to put ten years of training into this one battle.

But something's holding you back.

You look at you're siblings.

Being able to fight through this hell won't be worth it if you can't protect them. Something could happen that Mother's magic won't be able to fix, like a greater crystal jammer or Mother's own death.

Is being able to hold your own on the battlefield worth it if you're the only one to make it out of the inferno?

Minutes before deployment, you make a promise to protect them. To protect all your sisters' laughs and to be able to see your brothers' smiles again. Protect them from the nightmare of war before it corrupts them before you're very eyes.

You'll protect them because you're a fucking warrior.

xii.

You've always been so calculated, so prepared, so ready for anything.

Then why can't you focus?

Your brother flies to the ground with an awful crack, blonde hair matted with blood and for a full second, you freeze, and forget every single spell that's ever taught you how to deal with this. You cast cure, and in an instant, he's back on his feet, cards twirling around him in a flurry.

You look so calculated but you feel like a wreck. Waves crash inside you, hitting rocks, drowning ships, ruining your composure. Making strategies is as easily as breathing, so why can't you do anything? You coordinate your moves, three steps forward, one step left, a lunge, and suddenly there's blood spraying from the Militesi soldier, right under his jugular.

You know what you're doing; you're a soldier, but sometimes soldiers get things wrong.

You rise to your feet, wipe the blood off the end of your long sword, and wait for the next troop of soldiers to wash in.

Sometimes soldiers get things wrong.

But you won't, because you're a fucking warrior.

* * *

This was for Queen's (neotheresa on tumblr) birthday! I posted this on tumblr awhile ago but I didn't put it up here until now lol. I really love all the class zero girls so I wanted to experiment with this tense and writing style. So belated birthday dreamssssssss


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